


take aim (you could shoot me if you tried)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Name Change, otp: platonic you're doing it wrong, post 3x15, these two lovesick idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You know," she says after a moment. "We never... I mean, the vision was so clear, Phil, I <em>thought</em>, didn't you think-"</p><p>"I didn't," he says, very serious, drops his gaze. "I know you saw it, I know you knew what you saw, I know it was supposed to be inevitable, but no matter how many times I tried to imagine- god, I..."</p><p>"No?" she asks, and her voice cracks a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take aim (you could shoot me if you tried)

She knows they have to talk about it eventually.

Neither of them do. Not while fate is hanging heavy over them, a weight ready to fall, a vision of a future Daisy's not willing to admit she can't change.

She does, and she doesn't, and when Malick's got her on the ground, all she can think is  _for god's sake, Skye, come home_. Her ribs are cracked or broken or worse and it hurts to breathe and she's not scared of _dying_ , but the idea that she won't come home ever again, that frightens her.

It's Coulson who finds her on the rooftop. Coulson who cradles her up, very gently, and waits for the Quinjet to arrive. He doesn't say anything, the whole way home, but Daisy watches him through her eyelashes. When he thinks she can't see, he looks at her for long stretches, and the way her breath catches aches just a little under her breastbone, even through the softness of morphine. She knows, still, they're going to talk about this.

He waits, or she does, until she's safe in her own bunk, all her wounds stitched up. When he knocks at the door, she expects it somehow. Visions of the future, or maybe she just knows Phil Coulson well enough by now.

"Hi," she says, shifts to prop herself up a little, winces at the effort it takes. 

"Hey," he murmurs back, tone softer than she's heard in months. "I just thought I'd see how you're feeling."

"I'll live," she tells him. Carefully light, like she hasn't seen her own death at his hand, or thought for panicked, struggling minutes that this was  _it_ , that she'd never see home- "How's Lincoln?"

"Concussion," Coulson says. "He'll be fine in a day or two. Conked on the head with a fire extinguisher, apparently." She can't help it; her lips twitch into a smirk at the thought. Not everyone can be a hero, she knows, but  _seriously?_

"You know," she says after a moment. "We never... I mean, the vision was so clear, Phil, I _thought_ , didn't you think-"

"I didn't," he says, very serious, drops his gaze. "I know you saw it, I know you knew what you saw, I know it was supposed to be inevitable, but no matter how many times I tried to imagine- god, I..."

"No?" she asks, and her voice cracks a little. Coulson looks up as if he's startled, steps away from the doorway. Hesitates before sitting down.

"I can't-" he says, takes his gun from his holster. Ejects the magazine, empties the round from the chamber. Holds the gun loosely for a long moment. "I couldn't even point it at you if I tried," he whispers, and Daisy watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

"Sure you could," she says. "If you had to." He lifts the gun, takes aim, and she sees that his hands are shaking, even his prosthetic. It makes her chest ache again, or maybe it's her throat, tears stinging, but she reaches out, wraps her fingers over his. Steadies his aim, holds the gun at her heart. "See," she tells him. "Like that." Coulson huffs a laugh like it's punched out of him, drops his grip and spins the gun easily so he's offering it to her.

"What about you?" he asks, and she takes it, drops it to the floor.

"Oh," she says, "Coulson. You know I don't need a weapon to be a threat." The words come out harsh; she waggles her fingertips just playfully enough that she hopes he'll take it as a joke. (It is and it isn't. She  _is_ a threat, could be a threat. She's a weapon all by herself.)

"And?" Coulson says. Meets her eyes like it's a challenge. "Would you?"

She doesn't answer. Just flutters vibration down the curve of his neck, lets it press against the hollow of his throat where his shirt collar is open. She's as gentle as she knows how, trails air as if it's her fingertips more intimate on his skin than she's ever dared.

Coulson's eyes widen and then slide half-closed, and he actually gasps, a tiny little noise that Daisy realizes she wants to hear again. It's a noise that catches her more effectively than any bullet fired right at her.

"Sk-" he begins, and then visibly catches himself, and this, too, this is a shot that's true. "Sorry," he says. " _Sorry_ , fuck, I shouldn't..."

"Do you still..." Daisy asks, curious now. She's been curious for months, maybe. Every time he looks at her like she's someone he's missing. "You still think of me that way?"

"You're  _Daisy_ ," Coulson says, obviously frustrated. "You are, and I want to respect that, it's just when I'm- I mean, when I'm scared for you, I can't help but think of..."

"You're not scared for me right now."

"No," he murmurs, blushes just a little across the plane of his cheekbones. It makes her pleased to see it, that she can make Coulson blush like this. "I guess not. But, you, Daisy, the person I know, the person I- well, I mean, you're-"

"I'm Skye too."

"Yeah," he agrees. "You're still Skye too."

"It's okay," Daisy says, catches her bottom lip briefly with her teeth. "Maybe just..."

"Just?"

"When we're alone?" she offers, and Coulson hesitates for a moment.

"We're alone now," he says, like he's asking for permission, and Daisy knows what it is that he's asking for.

"Yes," she breathes. Reaches for his hand, drags her thumb over the pulse in his wrist. She can't look at him whole, suddenly. Can only focus on the corner of his mouth, the line of his jaw. Oblique little glances that take him in a bit at a time. His hand is warm under her fingers.

" _Skye_ ," he says, carefully, and it gets her right in the heart as if he's taken aim.


End file.
